


Domino Effect

by beemblebummed



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Depression is real, Trans Dipper, Trans Dipper Pines, Trans Mabel Pines, anxiety is also real and it's biting like a bitch, because i personally needed the pick me up, but dont be surprised if a mabel centric fic happens soon hEYO., everyone is queer pry that from my cold dead gay loving hands y'all, sad stuff because fear of transphobic reactions, this particular fic is more focused on dipper being as trans boy, trans mabel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 15:59:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12062301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beemblebummed/pseuds/beemblebummed
Summary: There are always good days to rival the bad days, and that is just a matter of truth. No matter how one could spin it, nothing is ever dark without light. Dipper knows that by heart, and holds it close as gospel, but even with actively believing that, the bad days arealwaystorture. Of course, they would not be called “bad days” if they were not like that.Material or financial bad days always felt like they hurt him the most, which ultimately makes him feel petty or weak, but when two of his binder latches snap, his loose shirts are dirty, and he is unable to find the tight sports bra that he used to wear as a binder...well, it’s just a bit hard tonothurt him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> warnings:
> 
> \- Really Bad Depression Day TM  
> \- talk about being scared of being rejected  
> \- recall to the Dipper vs. Manliness episode and what Stan says  
> \- Mrs. Pines told Dipper he needed to "stop acting like a girl" but Stan verbalizes that it was wrong of her  
> \- implied PTSD due to Weirdmageddon and Bill

There are always good days to rival the bad days, and that is just a matter of truth. No matter how one could spin it, nothing is ever dark without light. Dipper knows that by heart, and holds it close as gospel, but even with actively believing that, the bad days are _always_ torture. Of course, they would not be called “bad days” if they were not like that.

 

Material or financial bad days always felt like they hurt him the most, which ultimately makes him feel petty or weak, but when two of his binder latches snap, his loose shirts are dirty, and he is unable to find the tight sports bra that he _used_ to wear as a binder...well, it’s just a bit hard to _not_ hurt him.

 

Mabel is already out of bed and getting dressed when Dipper sits up, rubbing his eyes. It had been another night staying up, thinking, worrying, and more thinking for Dipper. He regrets most of it now, though the worrying is the biggest source of that regret, but he can’t exactly change it now, so he makes the decision right then to march on through the exhaustion and stress.

 

“Come on, sleepy boy, it’s time to get up!” Mabel chirps from her side of the room, pulling a sweater over her head. “Grunkle Stan said he’s got a _surprise_ for us today! I wanna go down with you!”

 

Dipper mumbles something completely unintelligible, and it isn’t even because he’s too quiet; he’s literally just muttering gibberish, but it only makes Mabel giggle. She glances over at him as he all but falls out of bed and then drags himself to his dresser, pulling open the lowest drawer after scratching a place on the back of his arm.

 

He digs for the binder, pulling it out and then fumbling with the connecting ends. Mabel looks back to her own clothes just as a loud snap comes from Dipper’s side of the room, and she immediately turns back around, finding only her brother’s back to her. He says nothing and does not move, but that snap sounded pretty bad, like something just broke or split. She begins to worry when he continues to stay still for much longer than he should if he _wasn’t_ upset or distracted by something.

 

“Dipper...?” she asks softly, taking a step towards him.

 

He trips over himself for words for a good few seconds and then whispers, “The clasps...”

 

Her heart drops. He is holding his binder, he does not seem to function, and then he says ‘ _the clasps_ ’. He broke the binder. Oh, God, he broke his only binder, and Mabel does not even know what to do for the first several seconds after she makes that connection. So she decides to do whatever she can to keep him positive, even though one of the most important things he owns just _broke_.

 

“It’s okay!” Mabel says, bouncing over to his side, looking over his shoulder at the article of underwear. “Yeah, it’s okay! I bet we can get it fixed—in the meantime, you can wear one of your special bras to make do!”

 

Dipper groans quietly and springs back into movement, throwing his binder down and hurriedly opening up another drawer, digging around frantically. Mabel frowns, taking a step back, watching him with a small pout. Her worry only grows when he continues to search, apparently unsuccessfully, for what could be the best stand-in.

 

He turns around, eyes wide, his chest already hurting from the anxiety that creeps so easily into him. “M-Mabel, both my big shirts, they’re dirty, an-and I can’t—I can’t find th-the-the—the thing! Ma-Mabel, I can’t find it!”

 

“Hey, hey!” she interrupts with a gentle tone, reaching out to touch Dipper’s arm. “It’s okay, man! I can lend you one of my sweaters, o-or I can try to fix your binder!”

 

The boy lets out a pitiful whine and reaches both hands up, covering his eyes. “No, no, no, no, _no!_ Th-there’s no okay, there’s no fixing! The clasps, they snapped, they broke _off!_ Ev-everyone’s gonna see me, everyone will th-think I’m—M-Mabel, they’re gonna figure out—!”

 

Mabel lightly grabs Dipper’s wrists, tugging on them just a bit. “Come on, Dipper, it’s gonna be okay! We’ll figure something out, I know we will! Stan’s a creative guy, he can put something together! Or Ford, why don’t we ask Ford?”

 

Dipper slings her hands off, pulling his own back again and pressing them into his chest. He shakes his head and mumbles something again, then answers clearly, “No, Ford doesn’t _know_ ; I don’t _want_ him to know, he’ll think I’m a _joke!_ We b-barely told Stan, h-he made fun of me when I...”

 

The girl shakes her head as well, and offers her brother a smile. “Dipper, he was trying to tease you in a friendly way. I don’t think he really knew then how much being manly and masculine meant to you! How could he have known? We hadn’t told him yet.”

 

No matter what she says, it does not seem to help. Dipper lowers his head and bends his knees just a bit. He is already in a full blown panic, and Mabel does not know how to reverse it. She knows how he feels, to see everything not work out—especially when it comes to looking the right way—but that still doesn’t help her get Dipper out of his anxiety attack.

 

“Dipper, c’mere, why don’t you sit down for a little bit?” she says, reaching out and touching her brother’s back, pushing him gently towards his bed again. “You sit down, an-and...I can go talk to Stan, that way you don’t have to leave the upstairs. It’s scary, I know, so I’ll go tell him for you!”

 

He only whines again, but allows himself be led to the bed, where he heavily sits down, covering his eyes again. Mabel hurries to the door, pulling it open just as Dipper begins crying. She is already out of the door when she hears the first sob out of him, and though it shakes her to the core, she cannot waste time trying to fruitlessly comfort him. Some days, all it takes is a few words of motivation, but today is not going to be that way. It had been made evident to her when he so quickly fell into despair.

 

Down the stairs she hurriedly goes, nearly tripping on her sock three steps up from the bottom, but she is determined to get this resolved as fast as she can. She sees Ford in the living room, reclined and apparently still sleeping, so she heads into the kitchen, towards the smell of cinnamon, sugar, and cake mix. In the kitchen, she finds her great uncle, screeching to a halt and pausing in the doorway.

 

Stan is at the oven, shaking his hips to the beat of what Mabel would later realize is actually Babba, Icelandic pop group sensation of last year’s music charts. She can’t really hear it over the loud sizzling of whatever her great uncle is currently whipping up and the loud singing that he is doing. At least, she’s pretty sure that is singing.

 

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel screams, startling the man who then yells in fear before whirling around. She doesn’t note that he reaches over and swiftly shuts off whatever that stereo is playing, waving her arms at him frantically. “Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Stan! It’s Dipper! He needs help!!”

 

Stan’s eyes widen and he freezes up for a full several seconds, the spatula he had been holding dropping and clattering to the floor. He springs back into action so suddenly that Mabel becomes startled herself, only able to dodge out of the way when Stan barrels past her, running as fast as he can back to the stairway. At first, Mabel is confused as to why her great uncle freaked out like that, and then she recollects how she presented the situation, and that gives her an idea of why he ran at top speed away from a hot stove eye.

 

Meanwhile, he busts through the kids’ doorway, puffing and panting as he grabs the trim for support.

 

“Dipper! What happened?!” he says loudly, the situation that Mabel painted him with her tone not being explained when he just finds Dipper crying on his bed with his hands coiled into fists and held against his chest.

 

The boy jolts upright and drops his hands, staring at his great uncle with an equally shocked expression. He does not know how to respond, and burning embarrassment gets to him before his ability to speak comes back. Instead of trying to fight through that to fail, Dipper yields to his distress and grabs his blanket, wrapping it around his body and then laying down on his side.

 

Stan tries to catch his breath for a few seconds, watching the lump on the bed with an open frown and brows knitted together. He can still hear Dipper crying, but it sounds like someone trying to be quiet, or not cry at all, and that only makes Stan’s train of thought go down an increasingly worried track.

 

“Kid, what the f—fffhheck are you all snotty for?” he demands, pushing off of the wall now that his breathing has stabilized somewhat. He hopes his slip up had not been detected, riding on Dipper being too distracted to notice what he almost said. “Mabel came downstairs, screaming her head off! I thought you were dying or something!”

 

Dipper does not answer, only pulling the covers around him tighter. Just as Stan opens his mouth to pursue the answers he needed, Mabel comes bounding up the stairs, nearly crashing into her great uncle but catching herself just in time. Stan looks over his shoulder at her, raising one eyebrow and jerking a thumb at Dipper, questioning her silently.

 

The girl holds up her hands, which oddly look as though they had been burned in the last short bit of time, and she takes in one deep breath.

 

“Dipper woke up and got his binder out but his binder broke and then he couldn’t put on either of his big shirts because he’s worn both of them in the last week, so he tried to find a binder substitute but it’s not in his drawer!” She exhales and then huffs for a second before drawing in another deep breath and continuing, “He started crying so then I ran downstairs to find you and I didn’t know how else to get your attention so I started screaming but I think you thought Dipper was gonna die or something like that but then you ran off and I had to take over the stove!”

 

Stan opens his mouth again, ready to start talking, and then he realizes: her hands look burned, which he did not notice earlier when she first came down, and then she says she had to take over the stove because he ran off.

 

“Mabel, did you burn your hands?” he asks, squinting at her.

 

Mabel blinks and then turns her hands around to look at them. She giggles and then wiggles her fingers as Dipper sits up slightly, peering over when his sister says, “Guess I did, huh?”

 

Stan yelps and hurries back to where she is now posing, still wiggling her burned fingers, and crouches down in front of her. “Lemme see, sweetie,” he mutters, shaking his head and then carefully gripping Mabel at the wrist to inspect the injuries. They aren’t _that_ bad, but they are not good. He thinks really hard about what the hell it was Ford was always telling him to do for non-magical burns—but it’s not coming to him.

 

“Grunkle Stan, it’s okay!” the girl insists, grinning her big braces-filled grin at him. “I can just go put some ice on it, I think. It’ll be okay!”

 

He grunts and then releases her, standing up and proceeding to spin Mabel around on her feet. “Go ask Ford, he knows all that first aid stuff better than I do. Don’t worry about waking him up; he needs to get his lazy butt moving anyway.”

 

Mabel hums thoughtfully, looking over her shoulder back to Dipper, a sad look coming to her face. She watches him for a moment before Stan pats her hair and then nudges her forward, closer to the doorway. “Go take care’a your burns, kiddo. I’ll help Dipper.”

 

“Hmm...okay, Grunkle Stan,” the girl says, though she glances at her brother. “Just...do anything. Please.”

 

He nods and gives her another nudge, smiling at the child. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll work my good ol’ Grunkle charm!”

 

She gives him a look, but obeys, heading out of the room and quietly pulling the door shut behind her. When she is gone, Stan breathes a big sigh and then turns around to face Dipper again just as he gets back under the covers. Stan moves slowly to the boy’s bedside and then carefully sits down at Dipper’s feet, just watching him for a moment as he shakes from crying. God, he hates this part.

 

“Why don’t we skip the part with the cheesy one-liners and you tell me why all of this is botherin’ ya, kiddo?” Stan asks, his voice carrying a hint of jest, but remaining a genuine request.

 

Dipper sniffles from under his covers but does not respond.

 

Stan grunts and then scoots backwards on the bed, pulling his legs up and then turning, crossing his legs in a pretzel. “Come on, man, work with me. Talking helps with you, I know it does. So talk to me. Dipper?”

 

Dipper takes a few shallow breaths, and Stan holds a single deep breath, waiting and hoping that his change in noise means he is actually about to start opening up. His hopes are fulfilled as Dipper slowly but surely sits himself back up, then moves the blanket down and away from his red, puffy, and tear stained face. Stan just grins at the boy, throwing his arms out like he is waiting for a hug. Right now, he’s not, but that is definitely what it looks like.

 

“There we go!” he says joyously. “Here, lemme wipe off your face. Can’t fight mystery monsters and demons with a swollen up face like that now can we?”

 

Dipper makes no movement to resist Stan’s hand when it comes over, gently smearing his tears away from under his eyes. When he is done, Dipper looks down into his lap, hiding just how hard he is trying to not start bawling again. He will not be able to help himself, nor Stan, by just crying pathetically.

 

“Ev-everything...everything k-keeps breaking,” Dipper finally says, his voice trembling as bad as Stan thought it would be. “M-my binder...an-and I ripped one of my good t-tank tops a few days ago, I dro-dropped that plate at the diner, and I wa-was tr-trying to help at the Sh-Shack but I broke Soos’ merchand-dise, and I just k-keep—!”

 

He stops, running a hand through his hair as he tries to regain his cool. Stan only watches, wordless, distressed and pretty damn useless right now.

 

“M-Mom ‘n Dad, they think I-I’m just overreacting, an-and Mom, sh-she s-said I keep acting like a little _girl!_ ” he all but shouts, and that is what sends him back into more crying, harder this time. He brings both hands back to his face, covering his eyes as he begins to sob, his shoulders shaking and his body slumping.

 

Stan flinches at Dipper’s words. “She did what? Whoa, whoa, why the heck did she say that? What were you all talking about when she said it? Does she realize that really upsets you?”

 

“M-my grades are dropping!” the boy says, trying to breathe deep but failing. “I-I’m doing something wrong in sc-school, I’m fa-falling apart, Stan! I can’t f-focus anymore, I’m always exhausted, I keep having really awful dr-dreams about....about....”

 

Oh, no. Oh, no, Stan knows where this is going.

 

“About Bill?” he asks in a low growl, finishing for Dipper. He balls his hands into fists as his entire body tenses up. He has to take a deep breath as well, but manages a great deal better than Dipper has thus far, though the thought of what the conversation has shifted to is enough to wreak havoc in Stan’s body just as much as the child’s.

 

Dipper nods but remains hunched over, shaking harder than ever. Stan tries to think of whatever he can that might help—how does he deal with remembering Bill? The stress of the entire shebang? The creeping paranoia that Bill will somehow make his way back into existence, even though that is impossible? It took actually losing his mind to _prevent_ that, but that hasn’t quite erased the panic that it wouldn’t always be enough.

 

“Dipper...listen, I think you need to call your mom, first of all,” Stan begins, scooting a bit closer to the kid. “That wasn’t all right. It clearly got your boxers in a bristle, so it needs to be addressed and talked out, ya know? She _knows_ about your situation, and she shouldn’t...use it to make you feel worse.”

 

The boy grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls it up, pressing it into his face in an attempt to wipe it of tears. “Sh-she knows...I don’t like being called a _g-girl_. It’s l-like she doesn’t even c-care.”

 

Stan reaches out and lightly pats Dipper’s head. “Of course she cares, kiddo. People like them, they just don’t understand this stuff. They never had to deal with it when _they_ were kids, and they didn’t have people to explain it to them either. It’s all a _mess_. But I know your old lady loves you, Dipper. She just...needs to work on how she navigates the awkward teen years.”

 

Dipper sniffles and picks his head up just barely, meeting Stan’s eyes. That is progress, so Stan continues with that train of thought.

 

“I mean, come on—hair in new places, lots of hormones, lots of _growing?_ It’s like alien transformations!” he exclaims, even emphasizing by waving his hands. It makes Dipper giggle through his tears, even just a bit, and that’s all Stan wants. “I mean, seriously, do you think I looked like _this_ —” He does a full body gestures of himself, “—for my entire childhood? Yikes!”

 

Dipper’s giggle grows into a more proclaimed chuckle, and he covers his mouth now, trying to stifle the sounds.

 

All of this only motivates Stan more, and his grin just keeps getting bigger. He grabs the hem of his tank top and pulls it up enough to expose most of his pot belly, grabbing and then shaking it at Dipper as he booms in a ridiculous voice, “ _I’m a hairy monster, look at me! This is your future!_ ”

 

“Ewww!” the boy responds, looking away and then flat out laughing. He glances back at Stan and then rubs his eyes, a good deal calmed down enough now to clear up his tears almost completely. After he wipes them all away, Stan pulls his shirt back over his stomach, waiting apprehensively for his great nephew to say something, or do something. He just hopes he helped.

 

Dipper, however, takes too long to do anything else, so Stan prompts him with a quiet, “So? You good? Y-you, uh, any better?”

 

The boy hums and sits up, taking a few deep breaths. They aren’t perfectly stable, but it is something to start on calming down completely. He tries to tame his hair for a moment and then looks up, meeting Stan’s eyes.

 

“Still...upset,” he mumbles. “B-but I guess it’s...a little more okay. I still don’t really know what t-to do about my binder. F-Ford....doesn’t...know.”

 

Stan scoffs, waving his hand dismissively. “My brother’s got street smarts, but he doesn’t know _anything_ about this kind of stuff,” he says. “He didn’t get me, but he wasn’t a jerk about it. We were both freaks, so he stuck by me and I stuck by him.”

 

Dipper squints at him, tilting his head. “Wh…what? What do you mean by that?”

 

There is a good stretch of silence between them, Stan growing increasingly uncomfortable and Dipper growing increasingly curious. He scoots closer to his great uncle, eyes big and wide and his mouth open like a tiny child waiting to hear the story of his life. Still, he is met with silence, until Stan exhales a heavy breath and then turns to climb off the bed.

 

“I don’t do great with words,” Stan states, straightening out his top and not meeting Dipper’s eyes. “I hate using ‘em. Get all those gross feelings ‘n stuff. I’ll be right back to show you.”

 

Dipper frowns but says nothing, even when Stan adds quietly, “I’m just gonna slink awkwardly out the door and hope you’re not already assuming things.”

 

Stan gets through the door and then heads down the stairs. He tries to remember where everything is that he can show Dipper, and if he even _kept_ all of it after all these years. He vaguely remembers promising himself he would, and putting away a few memoirs to make sure he never left it completely in the past. Hopefully whatever he _did_ hang on to will be enough to really tell Dipper what he means.

 

He _really_ does not like talking it out. Talking leads to thinking about it on a different level, thinking about it on that level leads to remembering how bad it had been, and remembering how bad it had been makes him feel all sorts of horrible things. He has learned to cope with whatever negativity follows most anything, really, but that is a book he closed a long time ago and didn’t want to actively think about when he did not have to.

 

He is too distracted to hear Ford’s half-awake greeting, and he does not even realize Mabel is trying to ask him about Dipper before he reaches his bedroom. The door is slammed shut, but for no malicious reason; he is just thinking too hard to remember that the door does not need to be pushed shut so hard.

 

Mabel stands in front of the door, the sound feeling as though it is echoing in her ears, but she says nothing. Instead, she frowns deeply, lowers her head, and then goes back over to Ford, sitting down on the couch next to his recliner. He is equally confused, but looks less sad and more incredulous.

 

“Did he just slam the door in your face?” Ford asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

The girl shrugs. “He said he was gonna talk to Dipper....but wouldn’t they both come downstairs if it helped? What if Dipper is still upset?”

 

Ford opens his mouth to answer, and then stops. He looks at Mabel, tilting his head and blinking. “Dipper is upset? Well, what happened?”

 

Mabel sighs. “He just doesn’t feel like a bo—” She stops, glances at Ford in a slight panic, and then clears her throat, throwing her arms up in the air. “I mean...oh, you know! Those silly teenage boys! Must be sad over a, uh...uh...a girl! Yep, must be upset over a girl!”

 

Ford only looks more confused. He narrows his eyes and then looks away, as if he is squinting at some far-away thing that continues to escape his understanding. Mabel looks over and sees that face just in time to hear her great uncle ask, “Dipper...likes girls?”

 

He avoids the child’s eyes after asking that, holding his breath as she processes what he just asked, and moreover, what he just implied. After it really sinks in, Mabel snickers at first, and then begins laughing hysterically. Ford finally looks back to her when she does, eyes wide, looking as if someone had just told him his fashion sense is as old as he is.

 

“Wh-what? I just thought, since he never really _talks_ to girls, and the way he acts—he just seems like he’s....!” The man trails off, not finishing that sentence. If Mabel had been paying attention rather than laughing the way she is, she would have seen Ford turning a light shade of red.

 

“Oh, no, no, Ford, you got it all wrong!” she says, reaching up to wipe away the tears that had built up in the corners of her eyes. “N-no, no, he definitely likes girls—he might like boys, too! But Dipper is not gay.”

 

Ford just stares in silence for a few second and then closes his eyes, just breathing calmly. “I...must seem very foolish,” he states, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Forgive me, he just reminds me of—”

 

A wordless yell coming from Stan’s room seems to shake the house, and then his door flies open, almost hard enough to put a hole in the wall where the doorknob hits. Mabel and Ford jump, looking over as Stan stomps out, a shoebox under his arm and a hard-to-see large photograph in the same hand. Mabel sees a guy who is about to say a lot of inappropriate words her parents don’t allow her to repeat, and Ford can immediately tell something is very wrong.

 

“Who moved my stuff!?” he demands, looking directly at Ford. “Did you move my pictures? Why are you always getting into my sh—”

 

The second Ford realizes where that sentence is going, he reaches across the arms of both pieces of furniture, clamping his hands over Mabel’s ears. He does not consider the fact that she has probably heard things like that before and possibly in worse context. He would be thankful, however, to know Mabel only heard the first two consonants of that particular word, but right now he is just annoyed.

 

“Stanley, that language is unnecessary!” Ford says, frowning.

 

Stan points with his free hand and responds, “Your _face_ is unnecessary!”

 

Ford narrows his eyes at his brother and shakes his head. “Stop yelling, it makes Mabel nervous. And stop swearing. She’s a child; she doesn’t need to hear all of this.”

 

“Right, fine.” Stan watches as Ford removes his hands, and only then adds, “It’s not like they don’t hear _all_ of that and more from their mom!”

 

Mabel looks at Ford and shrugs, not disagreeing with Stan. Ford grumbles and looks back to his brother, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “I _know_ what _our_ niece is like. Regardless of what the children live with, they don’t need more vulgarity in their home lives. And speaking of the children, where is—?”

 

“I’m tryin’ to find stuff to cheer Dipper up,” Stan interrupts. “That’s why _you_ need to stop messing with my things! You have your own room to root around in!”

 

“Stanley, I did not move your things,” Ford says calmly. “You likely misplaced them, or never had whatever it is you’re looking for to begin with.”

 

Mabel raises her bandaged hand and pipes up, “Maybe you kept it at the Shack?”

 

Stan shakes his head. “Dunno. Doubt it. Whatever, I’ll take what I got.”

 

He heads for the stairway again, muttering something to himself. Mabel and Ford watch him go, neither adding anything else to the conversation with Stan. When he is gone, the girl whines quietly, petting the loose ends of her bandages. Ford is currently too distracted to notice that she is some form of upset, and he does not snap out of it until Mabel starts groaning loudly, lays herself across the arm of the couch, and even waves her arms a bit.

 

Ford blinks a few times and then looks over to where she had once been, and jumps back a bit with a small gasp when it processes that she is slung over like a sack of potatoes and moaning like the undead. He relaxes a second later and smiles, thoroughly amused at how similar in theatrics she really is to Stan.

 

“What’s the matter, Mabel?” he asks, reaching over to pat the girl’s forehead.

 

“Still worried,” she says, dragging out the last syllable. “Dipper...and now Grunkle Stan...they’re both upset today! It’s a domino effect, Ford, can’t you see!! Now _we’re_ upset because they are!”

 

“Ah, I see,” Ford says, nodding. “However, there is something _you_ do _not_ see, Mabel, and I’m going to give you three chances to figure it out.”

 

Mabel scrambles into an upright position, propping herself up now with her hands on top of the couch arm. Her eyes are wide, seeming to twinkle in the light of the living room ceiling bulbs. “A guessing game? I love games! Games are good for bad days!”

 

He chuckles and steeples his fingers. “That they are. So let us play. What do _you_ think you’re not seeing about this situation?”

 

The girl reaches up one hand to make stroking gestures at her chin, pretending to have a beard. She narrows her eyes and focuses on something that is not Ford’s face, humming loudly, and getting louder with every few seconds. She holds that pose for an extended period of time, and then gasps, holding up her index finger.

 

“You’re not in the loop about Dipper?” Mabel guesses, her face lit up like her Christmas tree sweater.

 

Ford snorts. “Yes, that is true. I suppose that is for him to tell me, though, yes?”

 

Mabel nods and says nothing else.

 

“All right, what _else_ do you think you’re missing, dear?” he continues, smiling just a bit.

 

She retakes her thinking pose, but upgrades it this time. She moves to her bare feet, standing on the couch cushion with one foot while propping the other up on the back of the couch. Again with the imaginary beard stroking, and again with taking her sweet time in devising a proper answer for this challenge. It is all Ford can do to mask his amusement.

 

“Aha!” Mabel cries, jumping up and spinning around to face Ford again. She crouches slightly and points at her great uncle, grinning once again. “You’re not actually upset!”

 

Ford nods and then claps softly. “There you are. I am _not_ upset, and I do _not_ think this is a bad day. Would you like to know why?”

 

Mabel drops, resting her elbows against the sofa’s arm and then resting her cheeks in her hands. She waits for his answer patiently, that twinkle still in her eyes, and Ford cannot resist a small laugh.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings:
> 
> \- Really Bad Depression Day TM  
> \- talk about being scared of being rejected  
> \- recall to the Dipper vs. Manliness episode and what Stan says  
> \- Mrs. Pines told Dipper he needed to "stop acting like a girl" but Stan verbalizes that it was wrong of her  
> \- implied PTSD due to Weirdmageddon and Bill

“Sorrow _can_ be contagious, and sometimes it is a choice to be sad,” he says, laying back in his chair and closing his eyes. “We intentionally do not search for the good through the bad, and let ourselves fall further into despair. That does not mean, of course, that we are _always_ giving in to our negative feelings. Sometimes we just have days and moods and mentalities where we cannot prevent getting there. And that’s okay.”

 

Mabel nods a little, still listening.

 

“I have experienced both things myself,” Ford continues, “and now I have gotten better at handling my emotions in healthy ways. I know Stanley will be alright. I know your brother will be alright. So I will remain level headed, and let them be sad, angry, and afraid. Because some days, that is okay. If they ask for my help, I will provide it in whatever way I can, but I will let them have space, and I will try to be the wise brother out of it all.

 

“Do you understand?” he asks, peering at the girl through one eye now.

 

She hums and turns her head. “I think so...It’s like you’re the ice, and Grunkle Stan is the fire—you’re cool, quiet, and calm! And then Stan is wild, powerful, and has a hard time getting under control. Right?”

 

Ford pauses. That is a somewhat odd way of putting it, but he knows it’s merely Mabel’s way of understanding. He cannot fault her for simplifying things in her own unique and suitable words. “Yes, dear, right. Stanley...may try to melt me, but I will remain steady and firm so I can help him cool down when he needs me.”

 

Mabel nods again and then sits up, clasping her hands together. “And then when you’re the fire, Grunkle Stan will be your ice!”

 

Ford nods as well, though slowly. “Mm. I find myself being the cooler one more often than he, but...I have heard things about his first summer with you and your brother. He was a good influence most of the time—right?”

 

Mabel giggles. “Yeah. _Most_ of the time.” She recalls the time they made counterfeit money, the time they all fell into the Bottomless Pit because Stan was desperate to get rid of criticism, how he almost lost Waddles because he didn’t want him in the house....

 

“Most of the time,” she repeats in a somewhat ominous whisper.

 

Her great uncle just looks at her, one brow raised, but mentions nothing of that odd repetition in that strange tone. Instead, he clears his throat and glances to the threshold of the stairway.

 

“So, what do you think—should we go upstairs and check on them, dear?” Ford says, sitting up in his chair and then collapsing the footrest. “I can wait at the door, or some ways from it if you think that would be a better idea.”

 

She thinks about that carefully, and then squints her eyes at him. She has a good feeling that Ford will definitely _not_ be mean about Dipper’s situation—he was clearly all right with sexuality, especially since he was gay himself, but does that mean he’ll be okay with gender? If he does not mind sexuality, would he mind gender? She does a quick mental scan of her memory files, checking every folder and sub folder she can find of anything and _everything_ that could easily prove Ford a good guy here.

 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, but can I ask you somethin’ first, great uncle Ford?” the girl says, allowing her hands to drop into her lap.

 

“Of course.”

 

Mabel nods. “So, you know how you thought Dipper was gay?”

 

He nods as well.

 

“Well...do you know any _other_ people like that? Like, you know...in that _ballpark_...thing.” She draws that out a bit, but she wants to be as non-specifcally specific as she can afford to be.

 

The man pauses. He thinks about that, evident by the way his eyes narrow and his frown deepens. Mabel waits apprehensively, hoping in her heart that she will get an answer she likes out of him.

 

Ford reaches up and scratches the back of his head, blinking. “I....knew a few people in New Jersey that were like that. One of my girlfriends, she liked women. Oh, and another girlfriend liked men _and_ women—we met in Backupsmore, actually. She dated someone who was transgender. Do you know what that means?”

 

Mabel’s eyes light up. “Yes! Yes, I do!”

 

He smiles and then chuckles, lowering his hand back into his lap. “Well, her _romantic_ girlfriend was transgender—so that means she was born as a boy, but realized later on that being a girl was right for her.”

 

“Pshhh, I know what that is, great uncle Ford!” she tells him, waving her hand. “And on that note, can I tell you something about that?”

 

He tilts his head, watching her wordlessly. She takes that as a yes, so the girl brings both hands up to gently poke her fingers into her cheeks. “ _I’m_ actually like that, too! I’m a trans lady!”

 

Ford seems to trip over that, and then he grins as big as her. He laughs and adjusts his glasses, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. “Really? How fascinating! Our family is made up of so many unique folks!”

 

It is Mabel’s turn to tilt her head, watching him with one brow raised. “Is there anyone else aside from...you and me?” She asks on behalf of Dipper; does this mean Ford already knows?

 

He chuckles and then sits forward in the recliner, putting his feet down flat on the ground. “I notice that you bring up this conversation in light of Mason. Part of me wonders if you really know something else about him that you aren’t saying. That’s why I say what I did.”

 

The girl says nothing for a good stretch of time, and then she gasps loudly, eyes widening. He _has_ figured it out. She acknowledges he could easily mean Dipper being bi, not transgender, but she decides to play the dumb card. If Dipper were to ask, she will claim she had no idea Ford _didn’t_ realize Dipper was transgender—if he in fact, does not know—so in the end, everyone will have all of the information, everyone will know each others’ gender and sexuality, even if it were to unfold by funny happenstance.

 

She prides herself on playing the dumb one but actually knowing a _lot_ going on behind the proverbial curtain.

 

She jumps off of the couch, moving to stand in front of Ford and grab the end of his sweater sleeve. “Grunkle Ford, I just remembered! U-uhm, we need to, uh—go make sure Stan has his meeting with Dipper under control!”

 

“Oh, all right—”

 

She yanks him up to his feet and takes off as quickly as she can without pulling him into the floor face first, heading straight for the stairway. He does not protest, but a quiet pop from what Mabel assumes comes from his back—indicated by his quiet “ _oof, my back!_ ”—slows her down going up the steps.

 

Before she even reaches the top, she releases Ford’s hand to let him do as he wishes, and she can already hear Stan saying something in his loud voice that she can’t understand. When she gets up to the door, she leans her ear carefully against it with Ford behind her, the two of them listening as the voices become a little less muffled.

 

“So, you’re just...gonna show me some pictures?” Dipper is asking, his voice still all nasally. Mabel frowns.

 

“It’ll, uh, make sense when I do. Just...uh...look, and don’t talk,” comes Stan’s reply, and then they hear the springs of Dipper’s bed creak with a heavy weight added on.

 

There is shuffling that they can hear as Stan opens his shoebox, lays the one big photo out, and then there is muttering they can’t understand. Dipper wipes his nose and looks down, waiting for Stan to finish getting everything out that he wants to show. The boy counts a few photos inside the confines of the box, two pieces of what looks to be plastic jewelry, and a few old coins. When Stan picks up a couple of the photos, a two dollar bill slips out, and Dipper gasps, unable to not mention it.

 

“Whoa, you still have a two?” he asks, eyes wide.

 

Stan chuckles. “Fun fact: I only kept that one because this boy whose name I can’t remember gave it to me. I just remember I had a _big_ thing for him.” He pauses and then frowns, adding in, “He humiliated me in front of our gym class. I think Ford murdered him a few days after that.”

 

Dipper really isn’t sure where the line between metaphorical and serious is with that statement, so he does not address Ford’s alleged murder. Instead, he looks at his great uncle again and asks quietly, “You…like boys?”

 

Stan snorts, still sorting through the box and getting everything out. “Kiddo, I don’t tend to like _people_. But when I have any sort of _not_ bad feelings for them, it can be gals or guys or whatever. How’s that for an answer?”

 

Mabel gasps, but quiet enough for only Ford to hear, and looks up to him. Her great uncle whispers only the word, “Pansexual” and she grins. She wants to let out a tiny squeal of delight, but they are currently being secret agents, and she is not going to blow their cover.

 

Dipper smiles at that. “It’s a great answer.”

 

Stan glances up at Dipper after his response, frowning a bit deeper. He wants to follow up with the way Dipper had said that: the awe, the bit of hopefulness, and the fact that that’s what the boy inquired about. Not the murder, not that Ford supposedly committed one, or the fact that someone tried to pick a fight with Stan in the first place. It is interesting to Stan to say the least, but then again, he had already assumed Dipper liked boys, too. That’s the conclusion he comes to, and though he thinks about mentioning it, he remains silent as he checks the box one more time.

 

“All right, uh...all right, I will, er, answer questions, but you’re...a smart kid,” mutters quickly, trying to focus on straightening out everything so that he has something else to look at other than his great nephew’s face. “So...try to figure it out yourself, I guess.”

 

Dipper nods in response, and then looks at the first picture on the left. It is a baby picture, with Stan and Ford. He doesn’t recognize the woman, but she is in a hospital bed with the babies wrapped up in blankets in her arms, so he can figure out that that is their mother. She has black hair and looks tired, but she is still smiling. Dipper smiles, too.

 

He moves on to the next picture, which shows the twins sitting side by side, wearing big diapers. There are dolls in front of them, one of them covered in pink and wearing a dress, while the other seems to be more like a G.I. Joe toy. Dipper tilts his head just a bit, curious about that since, even now, that pink one would be for girls, not boys. _He_ doesn’t think it’s weird or crazy for boys to have “girly” toys, but he didn’t think anyone would really be cool with that back then, so he assumes that one is another child’s toy. Maybe a family friend’s.

 

The third picture is what really stumps him. The two of them look to be about four years old and are holding little signs. One says “If lost, return to Ford!” and the other one says “I am Ford!”, but the child holding the first sign has a dress on with bright yellow flowers on the skirt section. He does not see the third child, though he remembers Stan mentioning his brother being younger than he and his twin, but if it was all boys, who could the girl be?

 

Frowning deeply, he looks to the fourth picture, eyes widening when he processes it. He doesn’t see Stan begin to fidget in front of him as he stares at the photo of three roughly ten year old children: one girl and two boys. From left to right, there is definitely his grandfather, Sherman, and then Ford, and then a girl. Dipper looks at the girl, trying to figure out why her face looks familiar. Did they have a sister he didn’t ever talk about? Maybe someone who was disowned a long time ago?

 

Then something catches his eye. He looks down to the bottom of the photograph to find names scribbled down in shaky handwriting: _Sherman, Ford, and Amelia_. Dipper opens his mouth to say something, and then he retraces his steps, going back over all of the pictures, finding that same name on every one of them, written in the same handwriting.

 

Amelia.

 

All of the pictures have the same girl, but none of them seem to have Stan. Dipper blinks a few times and then looks over to the shoebox, seeing the writing on it for the first time.

 

“ _Stan’s box of memories_ ,” Dipper reads out loud, his voice so small that Stan nearly doesn’t hear him. “Grunkle Stan, y-you...”

 

Stan clears his throat. “Finish that, uh...that sentence.”

 

Dipper looks up at Stan, and the man _almost_ regrets saying anything if just for that look. He doesn’t associate good memories with that face—the way his parents looked, the way his siblings looked, the way _everyone_ looks when he tells them, when they finally understand. So many had such _horrible_ things to say or do after that face was made.

 

“You...you’re Amelia...aren’t you?” the boy says, holding his breath after those words leave his mouth.

 

The man nods, and then he scowls and shakes his head as if he had gone back on that thought. “I _was_ Amelia. ‘Stanley’ started as a joke name, because it was like Ford’s. It was a silly game, but then...uh...”

 

Mabel brings her ear off the door briefly to look up at Ford, finding him smiling just a bit. She frowns, confused, but says nothing.

 

“But then it _wasn’t_ just a game,” Dipper finishes for him, still just staring at Stan. “You...you’re—you’re like me! You’re like me! G-Grunkle Stan, you’re like me! I ca-can’t—I can’t believe this!”

 

Before Stan can really even say anything else, the child covers his mouth with a hand and tears well up in his eyes. Stan tenses up, holding his hands out almost like a “stop” gesture, but he cannot even get a word out before Dipper begins crying again, the only comfort being that those are happy or a good kind of shocked tears. At least, that’s what Stan really, _really_ hopes for.

 

“C-come on, Dipper, you’re not sad anymore!” the man says, panicking. “Don’t get all snotty again, you just learned good stuff—right? Didn’t you? Sh-should I have not said anything?”

 

Dipper suddenly starts laughing, but right now, it sounds more like him just choking. Stan opens his mouth to try and speak again, but Dipper stands up on the bed and half jumps to Stan, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck. He holds on tight, squeezing his eyes shut and smiling.

 

“Dipper?” Stan asks hesitantly, raising a hand up to put down on his great nephew’s back.

 

“Thank you, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper says through his tears.  “Thank you so much...”

 

It takes Stan a good few seconds for the gravity of this entire situation to hit him, and when it does, he laughs, but it’s weak and a pitiful attempt to hide how shaken he is. He uses both arms rather than only one hand now, holding Dipper in his embrace as tightly as he can without hurting the boy. He wills himself to not cry, but the strength it takes to make sure that doesn’t happen had been compromised when Dipper first latched on.

 

His tears escape his eyes with such ease, like he had not cried in a long while. He almost does not realize he is crying in the first place, but then Dipper pulls back and gasps.

 

“You’re crying!” the child shouts, eyes widening.

 

Mabel gives a soft gasp, and her hand reaches for the doorknob, but Ford’s comes down and gently grabs hers. She looks up, ready to demand to know exactly what he thinks he is doing, but she just finds a soft expression on his face. Instead of speaking, she watches him as he crouches down, closer to her height, and then he releases her hand.

 

“They need this, Mabel,” he whispers to her, nodding. “Don’t you think?”

 

She hesitates. Her frown only deepens as she turns her attention back to the door. She can hear her boys on the other side, and all she wants to do is run in and comfort them. But she takes Ford’s words into heavier consideration; maybe they _do_ need this. So Mabel nods, and then grabs her great uncle, taking his sixth finger into her much smaller hand.

 

“Okay, Grunkle Ford.”

 

Meanwhile inside the room, Stan yelps, bringing one hand to his face, pushing up his glasses to try and wipe them off. It does not work too well in his favor, but he still tries his best to recompose himself starting with that. Alas, as much wiping as he does, the tears do not seem to want to _stop_ , and Stan decides to give up, pulling his glasses off altogether and then folding them up to set aside. Dipper does not know what to say anymore; words began to evade him when Stan started crying.

 

“Q-quit givin’ me those eyes, squirt,” the man says, shaking his head with a sniff. “Your snotty mess pas-passed onto me!”

 

Dipper is wholly unsure of what he can do for a moment, and then he smiles just a bit. He doesn’t need words. He has actions, and he uses them: the boy sits down beside Stan, ensuring he does not crush or upset any of his great uncle’s belongings, and then Dipper puts his hand on top of Stan’s.

 

“It’s all right, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper assures him softly. “It’s okay to cry.”

 

Stan looks at the child, not having the chance to say anything before the door is thrown open loudly, and Mabel yells something. Stan thinks she said something about noise, and Dipper heard ‘my boys!’. Whatever it was she had said, afterwards, she rushes over to the bed and climbs into it, latching onto Stan tightly. She hugs his fat arm as hard as she can, her eyes squeezed shut and her lips forming a big pout. Ford remains just off to the side of the doorway for now, concealed.

 

“I love you, Grunkle Stan!” she cries, sniffling. “I love you, I love you! You and Dipper _both_ are amazing manly men and I love you both!”

 

Both of the boys laugh through their tears, Stan maneuvering his arm to allow Mabel to still comfortably hug it, but to also get his hand on her back and hold her closer. “We, we love you too, sweetie. You’re certainly _my_ favorite lady, you kno-know it? The girliest girl I’ve ever met, wouldn’t you know it?”

 

Mabel giggles and holds on tighter. “You’re a goofball, Grunkle Stan.”

 

They all remain in their conjoined embrace for a few moments longer, and then Mabel carefully detaches herself, standing on the edge of Dipper’s bed with expert balance. She glances at the belongings on the blanket, but not for very long at all. Her main focus right now is comforting her guys, and that is what she plans to do.

 

Dipper reaches over and picks up Stan’s glasses, sitting back in his original spot and then using his own night shirt to wipe them off the best he can. When he hands them back to his great uncle, Mabel beams and raises her arms in the air.

 

“Why don’t we all go eat _Stancakes_?” she hollers, bouncing up once and then bouncing back, landing solidly on her feet. It hurts, but she is okay with that.

 

The boys both give sounds of agreement, but Dipper falters afterwards, looking down at the photos again as a frown finds its way back to his face. His family watches him carefully, quietly, and with some worry.

 

“But...what about Ford?” Dipper asks, his voice tiny and still riddled with evidence of this entire thing. Ford frowns from his position, still unseen. “I know he supported and loved you, Stan, but what if...what if he thinks I’m _weird_? And not...the good Pines way?”

 

Mabel blows a raspberry. “Great uncle Ford is fine. The only thing he needs to work on is getting out of that old chair!”

 

Stan scoffs. “I shoulda known that lazy _nerd_ would still be kicked back like a...like an old, uh...”

 

“Like _you_ , Stanley,” says Ford, stepping into full view with a mischief riddled smile on his face. Mabel’s grin only grows, but her boys both jump and stare at Ford with wide eyes. He does not stop smiling, ducking into the room and slowly approaching the bedside.

 

Dipper’s chest feels heavy again and he grabs the edge of his blanket, pulling it up far enough to conceal everything from his chin down. He lowers his head again when Ford is closer. It takes all of his strength and stubborn nature to _not_ break down for the billionth time, and this time it is motivated by something stronger than simple avoidance of these feelings.

 

He does not want to embarrass himself in front of _Ford_ of all people.

 

Stan looks between his brother and his great nephew, frowning. After careful thought, he looks to Ford and mouths _“watch it”_ to the other man. Ford just nods and then comes to Dipper’s side, kneeling next to the bed.

 

“Mason,” Ford says in a soft tone, “I am proud of you no matter what. We _all_ are. Who you are is who you are, and even _if_ I were to judge you for being just that, my opinion would matter none.”

 

Dipper can feel his lip quiver so he pulls the blanket up past his nose. “G-Great uncle F-Ford, I-I-I...I _want_ you to li-like me, I w-want you to th-think I’m c-cool an-and...”

 

“I _do_ , Mason,” the man continues, keeping a gentle voice at all times. “I am so, so very fond of you, and I cherish every moment I get to spend with you, as both a mentor and as your family. Mason, you are creative and clever and smart and strong! How your body was made doesn’t change any of that.”

 

Mabel cannot stop smiling, even if she wants to cry just for the fact that Dipper has been so upset. She’s well past delighted that Ford knows now, and is giving him encouragement. Meanwhile, Stan is apprehensive; he trusts his brother to be smart about this, but he does not know how fragile Dipper’s feelings will be now since Ford is added into the mix. He knows how much his nephew adores Ford, and he knows how easily upset the kid is, on top of that.

 

Dipper sniffles and then, there it is, a choked sound from the back of his throat that opens the floodgate of tears. Everyone tenses up and Ford briefly panics. He quickly goes over every interaction with Dipper: the good, the bad, and the in between. What would be appropriate? More talking? Should he give him a hug? He rules out the latter; he probably does not even want to think about being touched right now.

 

“Mason, you don’t have to be ashamed in front of me,” Ford tells him, leaning against the side of the bed. “I am no more special as a person than Stanley or Mabel. I...understand you admire me, but I am still just a man.”

 

The child makes an attempt to mask a hiccup, though it is not a perfect, and then he slowly looks up to meet Ford’s kind eyes. There are thin trails of the tears down his cheeks, but more gather in heavy amounts in the corners of his eyes. Ford shakes his head ever so slightly, chuckling as he reaches over to carefully rub some of the tears away with a thumb.

 

“I...I’m so s-sorry, great uncle F-Ford,” Dipper whispers, shutting his eyes tightly. “I’m j-jus-just a b-big b-baby....!”

 

“No, you’re a human being with emotions and a breaking point,” Ford corrects in a voice that is firm but not harsh. He eases the blanket out of Dipper’s hands and then takes a light hold of the boy’s shoulder closest to him. “Please, don’t be ashamed to cry. But don’t think you have to be...upset like this simply because I’m seeing you in this state.”

 

Dipper sniffles again. He reaches up and wraps his hand around Ford’s end fingers, squeezing them. “I’m j-just being stupid now.”

 

A chorus of ‘ _no you’re not!_ ’s erupt from his family, startling him. Dipper blinks and looks at everyone for a moment, then slowly back into his lap. He says nothing for a good while, and Mabel as a result becomes impatient much like Stan earlier.

 

“Come on, doofus!” she says, latching onto Ford’s arm now and pushing him further into the mattress that causes more creaking, “Grunkle Ford loves you! We _all_ love you. We’re here for you, no matter what! And besides, I told him before I came up here about me—he still thinks _I’m_ the best.”

 

Ford laughs at that. “Yes, that I do. I’m proud to be kin with _all_ of you, and that is something I would not change.”

 

Dipper glances up, finding everyone still smiling at him encouragingly in that brief moment. He gives Ford’s fingers another light squeeze and then breathes out deeply. “Um....S-Stan, did you p-plan on leaving th-the house tod-today? For the...surprise.”

 

The man cackles. “Leave the house? Who do you think I am?”

 

Mabel cannot help herself, bursting with loud laughter from her Grunkle’s words, moving her hands to hold them over her eyes. As a result, Stan’s cackle picks up and grows into his equally obnoxious and loud laughter. The pair of them quickly infect Ford, and then Dipper falls victim to a bout of giggling, too.

 

When their laughter ends, they would all go downstairs for the pancakes that Stan left earlier, and Ford would enlist Mabel’s help to construct a makeshift binder until they could buy a new one for Dipper. They would not leave the house until later that evening, only to go for ice cream and making shenanigans wherever they could find the opportunity for them.

 

At the end of the night, Stan drives his car back to their house, Dipper in the passenger seat, with Ford and Mabel in the backseat, her head against his shoulder. Dipper is completely out, and Ford is well on his way. Mabel’s eyes are wide open, staring out her window up into the night sky, counting the stars as she looks for the big dipper.

 

She smiles and closes her eyes, shifting just a bit against Ford to get comfortable. He mumbles softly but does not move or speak otherwise.

 

“Best bad day ever,” Mabel whispers before drifting off to sleep.


End file.
